Gord Winkle sighed. School had started two weeks ago, but he still didn’t have his metal shop up and running the way it was supposed to be; it had taken longer than anyone estimated to repair the damage from the fire at the end of last year. He had also had to write new lesson plans almost every day and really stretch himself because they had so few working table saws and drill presses. He was tired and hungry and he just wanted to go home—but instead, Bedlam’s entire faculty had to report to the auditorium to meet the new BCHS student recruiter and development director, Chester “Skip” Rykhorst. The memo that Principal VanderHaar sent out promised that Skip would share some ways that the faculty could help in the recruiting effort.
Gord looked at his watch and sighed again. He was late. He grabbed a pad of graph paper, locked up the shop, and trudged toward the auditorium.
VanderHaar was on the stage, mopping at his forehead with a handkerchief as he explained that enrollment had come in under board projections for the third straight year. Winkle slipped quietly into the back row, next to his buddy, gym teacher Rex Kane.
“Hidey-ho, neighbor,” Rex said. “Old Bentley is just giving us the lowdown on how low down our enrollment is.” He chuckled at his own wisecrack and dug his elbow into Gord’s ribs. Gord ignored him and turned his attention to the stage. Next to VanderHaar stood a young man who looked barely older than the seniors Gord taught in metal shop. VanderHaar looked like his best friend had just died, but the young man was beaming.
“And so,” VanderHaar concluded, “the board has hired Skip Rykhorst as our new recruitment and development director. He has big plans to right our ship, and some of those plans involve you. Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to introduce Skip.”
A smattering a polite applause greeted the new director who took the podium with, dared Gord describe it this way, elfin glee.
“Marketing, folks! It’s all marketing,” Skip said in a high voice.
Rex leaned into Winkle and whispered, “Do you think this kid’s hit puberty yet?”
Gord shushed his friend as Skip continued.
“For three straight years, Bedlam’s enrollment has dropped, but you offer a great education, a great product. To me, that means one thing and one thing only—you have a branding problem. So let me ask all of you, what is the Bedlam brand? What does it represent?”
A thick silence shrouded the auditorium, but Skip just kept smiling. Finally, English teacher Christina Lopez raised her hand.
“We are a school, not a brand,” she said. “We are trying to help students realize their full potential as citizens in the kingdom of God. We are not selling blue jeans.”
Skip, if possible, smiled even bigger. “I have another question for you then. What is a brand?”
Another silence until counselor Maxwell Prentiss-Hall, the school counselor, shouted from two rows in front of Gord, “A brand is a company name. Like Nike or Levis.”
“Well, Bedlam Christian High is a name, is it not?” Skip replied. “So by your own definition, you do have a brand. Furthermore, a brand is more than just a name. Deepak Chopra described a brand as ‘as a kind of myth . . . a compelling story that is archetypal. . . . It has to have emotional content and all the themes of a great story: mystery, magic, adventure, intrigue, conflicts, contradiction, paradox.’ I think that is a good place to start understanding brand. What story is Bedlam telling? Is it a great story? Are we telling it clearly? These are questions of brand, questions of marketing.”
Skip paused, as if he expected applause or acclamation. Only Maxwell was nodding, but Maxwell always encouraged the speaker in an event such as this. Gord reflected that even if VanderHaar was announcing that the entire faculty was going to be imprisoned in a dank cell with rats and alligators and only a single crouton per day to eat, Maxwell would still be nodding his head off.
Skip continued. “So in order to build this brand, I need your help—I need your stories. I need to hear about the great work that you do with our students. Then we’ll perform a market analysis, figure out which stories need to be delivered to which markets, and develop a multipronged marketing campaign to leverage our brand effectively. This will involve some exciting focus groups that I will be asking several of you to serve on later. For today, though, I am going to break you up into groups. Each group will appoint a recorder, who will write down all the stories you tell, and then later in the week I will call some of you in to my office for follow-ups.”
Jon Kleinhut, Bedlam’s librarian/media delivery specialist, raised his hand. Rex jabbed Gord in the ribs again. Kleinhut was resistant to change, protective of his time, and more than a little paranoid. Rex was anticipating some fireworks. Gord tried to summon a smile, but he was worried. His most compelling story was still his burning down of an entire wing of the school. Though such is the stuff of legend, it hardly helps with marketing. Besides, Gord thought to himself, even if he did think of some good stories, then Skip would summon him into his office to talk more about the details, or ask him to serve on the focus group. Gord had too much on his plate already. For now he tried to concentrate on what Kleinhut was about to say.
“Can I just ask a question?” Skip nodded appreciatively. Gord braced himself for something caustic, or at least sarcastic, but Kleinhut actually smiled (though it looked like the way a snake might smile when closing in on a mouse). “I just want to make sure we know what kind of stories would be best for our brand, so we can use our time together most efficiently. I thought of three examples. I promise they will be quick. Could I run them by you so we can all get a sense for what we are looking for?”
“Sure,” said Skip. “That sounds like a great idea.”
“All right,” said Kleinhut, “Story one: A couple of years ago we had this kid, for the sake of discussion we’ll call him ‘Ryan,’ walk through these doors. He was a bright kid, a little lazy, but pretty bright. He kind of fell in with the wrong crowd and toward the end of his freshman year, we caught him with drugs in his locker. Principal VanderHaar called in the police and met with Ryan and his parents. The kid was contrite and said he was sorry and agreed to go through a treatment program. Beginning of junior year he got caught with drugs again. VanderHaar talked to the kid and the parents, and I think they had to go before the school board, but we cut him some slack again. He went through another treatment program this summer and he is back for his senior year. We don’t know for sure if he is going to make it to the end, but I think that is a great example of how the school uses both discipline and mercy and gives the kid another chance. Isn’t that great?”
Skip smiled a broad smile and said, “That’s a great story. But as you think about your stories, you might consider the audience and purpose . . .”
Kleinhut cut him off. “In the interest of time, let me give you the other two stories, then we’ll see what you think. Story two: We had a student, let’s call her ‘Jenny,’ whose older brother was a veteran from two tours in Iraq. He had a hard time readjusting to civilian life, and unfortunately, he drove his motorcycle into a brick wall. Jenny sank into a depression. Kids and staff rallied around her, loved on her, watched out for her. Still, her grades went down the tubes, and eventually she dropped out of school. I was proud of Bedlam through those months. The support Jenny received was beautiful, but not every story has a happy ending. And then there’s story three . . . ”
“Stop!” Skip said. The smile was still on his face, but it looked a bit strained. “I see what you are trying to say, but I humbly submit that you are misunderstanding me. I never said that a marketing campaign would catch the whole truth of Bedlam Christian High School’s existence. Of course you people do important work that won’t show up in our marketing. I’m not asking you to do anything differently.”
Kleinhut folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. He stared defiantly. “A half-truth is a whole lie.”
Skip’s smile faded and he blew out a deep breath.
“Look,” Skip said in a softer voice, “you can turn me into an enemy if you want, but think about this: we all sell ourselves every day. We comb our hair and dress a certain way to make a certain impression. We present the ‘best us’ we can. Is that a lie?” Skip shook his head sadly and added, “I believe in Bedlam Christian High School. I believe in the work you people are doing. That’s why I’m here. But I’ll tell you this: if we don’t ignite our brand and start attracting more students, you good folks will have no student body left to work with. And that would be the greatest tragedy of all.”
This slight fissure in Skip’s heretofore-upbeat facade seemed to erode the mostly stony reception he’d first received from the Bedlam faculty. They gradually began to organize themselves into small groups, with the usual suspects volunteering to lead the discussion or take notes. While not everyone was on board with the concept of marketing their school or “promoting their brand,” the issue of declining enrollment—and its hand-in-hand partner, reduction in staff—was one that resonated. Gord sighed. He was tired, but he figured that if spending some time in meetings or sitting on a committee might lead to strategies that resulted in more families discovering what BCHS had to offer, he could find the energy somewhere within him and give this branding thing a shot.
Jan Kaarsvlam recently finished a new book on flipping Christian school real estate, entitled From Soccer Fields to Strip Malls: Repurposing Extraneous School Facilities for Profit. In it, he examines underutilized real estate at shrinking Christian schools. He reveals his foolproof plan for how school boards can turn millions of dollars in real estate into hundreds of dollars in cash.
